


Dismantling the Framework

by recrudescence



Category: Inception
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happens when a post-job drink becomes meeting one another shot for shot while trying to remain articulate and professional. This all goes swimmingly until Eames is halfway through another order and Arthur whispers in his ear, "I want you to lick your come off my chin."</p><p>Co-written with Froggie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dismantling the Framework

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on a dreary, sleepless night several months back when the two of us decided the best cure for insomnia was cranking out something irredeemably plotless in which Arthur is the most shameless of drunks. **Contains unsafe sex.**

It happens when a post-job drink becomes meeting one another shot for shot while trying to remain articulate and professional.

This all goes swimmingly until Eames is halfway through another order and Arthur whispers in his ear, "I want you to lick your come off my chin."

Then he smiles and sets down his glass as Eames sits there, saucer-eyed.

Eames doesn’t _do_ saucer-eyed, but apparently this is just one more instance of Arthur being an exception.

Normally, Arthur's Mr. Put-Together, has been each of the several times he's worked with Eames before. Eames doesn’t know why he’s suddenly decided they’ve danced around this mutual attraction long enough, but the really important thing here is that Arthur—still put together in every way until he opens his mouth—trusts Eames at least enough to let loose some very interesting information.

Unless Eames just imagined hearing that. Or maybe it’s Arthur’s idea of a hilarious sobriety test.

“Excuse me?” Eames manages to ask eventually.

And Arthur just looks at him angelically, lips upturned as if they weren’t murmuring filth at him just moments ago. “Your _mouth_. I think about your mouth all the fucking time, you know that?”

His knee is pressing against Eames’s under the table. “Right,” Eames says, not gaping in the least. “Well. Maybe it’s time to call it a night before you do something you regret.”

There's got to be some sort of mathematical equation there, where X equals the amount of alcohol and Y equals the verbal debauchery. Someday, maybe he’ll figure out the numerics. Maths isn’t his best area. And Arthur is very distracting.

He actually starts doodling a graph on his napkin, then gives up when Arthur glances at him and goes, "I fucked myself with three fingers the other night thinking of you, Eames. Scotch?"

He'll take the fucking scotch, thank you _very_ much, because drinking means he can't be expected to say anything in response to things like that. Maybe he should be looking into who incepted Arthur with the notion that he's a cock-starved strumpet. Or maybe he should just go with it and show his appreciation. So many decisions.

Arthur watches him accept a refill, but Eames is so flustered he misses a bit and it trickles down his chin. Nonchalant, Arthur just catches it on his finger and licks it. "Eames, you've gotta...you need to be less of a mess."

Eames can’t stop staring at the way his mouth looks around his fingertip and promptly loses his command of most of the English language, as well as the other languages he's picked up in his years of forging. It's as if Arthur doesn't realize his other hand is on Eames’s thigh. “Arthur, listen, this is hardly…”

Arthur just cocks an eyebrow at him, challenging. “Come on.” His head is a warm, heavy weight when he melts against Eames and rests it on his shoulder, nose a small point of heat rubbing at the side of his neck. “You want to, right?”

Years ago, when money was tight, Eames picked up some skills the hard way, back before he’d learned there was another kind of niche market for forgery. It’s made him very aware that the perversely varied and in-parts-vaguely-traumatic-and-in-over-his-head things he can get away with in dreams aren’t the same things that fly in reality, so he tries to tread carefully. At the same time, he _has_ the ability to do these things and is aware of it, and Arthur makes thought after grubby little thought come crashing through his reserve, right along with endless speculations regarding what Arthur would look like spread-eagled and begging.

Arthur, layer upon layer of contradictions wrapped in a herringbone waistcoat.

“Yes, okay,” Eames hears himself whisper, and then he can’t untangle his tongue long enough to get another word out, which he’s sure isn’t any fault of the alcohol.

Eames is usually very good at knowing what to say and when to say it, but no matter how much this seems like a dream—a very, very good dream, incidentally—it's still reality and reality has consequences and someone should be considering them because Arthur most certainly isn't. Arthur is moving that slim-fingered hand up to cup him through his trousers, squirming and shifting in close enough to press his mouth against his ear. "So you've got foreskin, right?"

If Eames takes his next sip a bit too fast, surely it’s only natural.

Arthur's teeth graze his ear and he tries to keep his gaze steady, but how the fuck _can_ he when Arthur is talking about how he wants to tongue Eames’s foreskin, lick the slit and get him nice and wet, take him in until Eames is hitting the back of his throat and choking him… Eames feels like he's choking _now_.

He’s as detail-oriented as ever, to a fault, shimmying half into Eames’s seat so he can fumble at his zipper, murmuring sordid, fascinating, un-Arthur-ish things all the while. _And licking, you can come on me and lick it off, lick me anywhere you like_ , and _Then you could fuck me, just with your tongue, make me nice and ready for your cock. Would you ever do that? Would you like it? Because I think about that, too._

All smiling and wriggling and scotch-flavored; squeezing him, dragging the tip of his thumbnail against the slit of Eames’s cock, and even through the fabric it's enough to have Eames arching in his seat. Arthur is laughing softly into his ear. "God, you're so hard already."

Eames is licking his lips unconsciously. He sets his glass down a little harder than he intends, grabs Arthur's wrist before he realizes what he's doing, and leans in to whisper, "I hope you plan on owning up to all of that lovely filth, darling.”

Arthur's face just breaks into one of those charming smiles, eyes glittering, and he finally manages to navigate a hand through the front of Eames’s boxers. "All of it, yeah. Gonna hold me to it?" He's practically silent, all breath to the words, like his voice has been rasped down to nothing. Almost innocently, he tilts his head. "Not right here, though, that's just wrong." As if he doesn't have a hot hand very firmly gripping Eames’s cock and a very wet tongue sneaking out to flick against his jawline.

"Every. Filthy. Word," Eames whispers. In record time, he settles the tab—actually paying the entire thing instead of needling Arthur about it on principle—and sets himself to rights, then practically drags Arthur bodily out to the nearest cab.

He’s dimly aware that his cock is pressing an obscene shape against his trousers, the fabric teasing him with every moment. Arthur isn't helping, sliding his hand into Eames’s pocket as he gives the cab driver directions to his current hotel. The driver seems to roll his eyes and Eames is sure that he can hear Arthur smirking—he doesn't know how one can hear a smirk, really, but Arthur’s so good at smirking it's a multisensory thing, to the point he can smirk across dream levels and Eames can _feel_ it, he swears—right up until the warm, slick press of his tongue is probing into his mouth. It lasts forever and not nearly long enough before they've arrived and Eames is pressing a wad of bills into the cabbie's hand, thanking him profusely, trying not to react as Arthur gives his arse a squeeze as they drag themselves out of the cab and over to the front door.

It's unreal that even now Arthur hardly has a hair out of place. A couple shirt buttons undone, sleeves at his elbows, and he still looks dignified as the day is long. Aside from the smile creeping across his face, the one Eames half wants to stare at like a star-crossed fool—because Arthur has a delightful smile and he doesn't share it nearly enough—and half wants to eradicate good and hard, with plenty of tonguing and nipping and his fingers catching in that neatly styled hair until there's nothing neat about it at all. The latter, of course, wins out because Arthur is a smug little cocktease.

Eames thinks he growls something like that into Arthur's mouth—"Bloody fucking _tease_ , aren't you?”—before pushing his thumb to his lower lip, opening him up just a bit more for him to get his tongue inside.

He feels himself smile wolfishly as Arthur gasps, and finally— _finally_ , a break in that ironclad composure that is the bane of Eames’s previously blue-balled existence—Arthur opens his mouth to him. Their kiss is messy, teeth and tongues and a bit of a fight for dominance. Eames strokes Arthur's jaw with his thumb, gets a perverse joy out of mussing up his usually immaculate hair, and Arthur groans as Eames grabs a handful of it and tugs, maneuvering Arthur against the door as he attempts to open it—three times—before finally shoving them through.

Arthur, as it turns out, is on the noisy side. He gasps and groans and comes appealingly close to a whine once or twice, and he kisses like he needs it to _breathe_ , his mouth hot and frantic against Eames’s own. For someone who makes a living of learning everything he can about people, Eames is rapidly realizing he's been in the dark about all sorts of fascinating things pertaining to Arthur. Arthur, who breaks them apart just long enough to stare at Eames with wide, lust-blackened eyes and stutter out, “I want to see," low-voiced and wanton.

Then he's fumbling at Eames’s trousers all over again, one hand gripping at his arse as the other jerks at his belt, every bit of his body seeming to shudder at once even though they're still standing, still fully clothed, and haven't been inside for more than a minute.

It's all a blur of Arthur getting on his knees, then, pressing his face there where his fingers are working Eames’s trousers down. Stroking and tugging and saying things that make Eames want to heft Arthur off his feet and into an actual _bed_ if only his knees would cooperate. "Can I suck you off?" and "I'm good at it, I’ll make it so good, I promise," and "I bet I can make you come so hard, just _let me_."

Eames groans and fists a hand in his hair, stutters out, "Yes, _god_ , Arthur, please," and then, softer, as if mumbling to himself, "I want to see you choke on it, love."

Arthur's eyes are dark with want as he nuzzles him, his nails digging into Eames’s arse as he tries to exert a measure of self-control. He tugs Eames’s pants down viciously before pressing his face to the base of Eames’s cock and inhaling, almost gasping for breath, and Eames’s cock bobs as he tries not to thrust in the direction of Arthur's face, tries to will himself to patience because this is finally happening and Arthur is looking at his cock like a starving man.

He's never going to be able to see Arthur's mouth the same way again, that much is clear. Arthur doesn't take him in, not yet—he pushes lower, nose pressing into the grit of pubic hair, and groans once more, mouth just beneath Eames’s cock. His palm is warm when it curves up the inside of Eames’s thigh, breath warmer still when he whispers, "Spread your legs for me," all in a rush, like he can't hold himself back much longer. And then he's actually licking his lips, gracing the most chaste of kisses to the tip of Eames’s cock, and only then sinking his mouth around it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Eames breathes and shift his legs apart, inviting Arthur to take him deeper, biting his lip at the wet, wet heat of Arthur's mouth, relishing it as he slides deeper to hit the back of Arthur's throat until he can hear the soft wet sound of Arthur's airway suddenly being cut off. And Arthur just _stops_ and looks up at him, eyes so intense that Eames feels like he's the one being dominated, somehow, even as Arthur stops breathing for him.

He seems to be waiting for something and it takes a second before Eames suddenly _gets it_. He grips Arthur's hair harder and thrusts, hitting the back of Arthur's throat.

Arthur coughs, backs off of Eames’s cock just slightly for some air before sliding back down again, wetness trailing down his chin and dripping onto his waistcoat.

For all the times he's let his mind wander to thoughts of Arthur and what he might be like in bed, Eames never imagined anything like this. Neat-pressed, upright Arthur is a slutty drunk who's more than happy to take Eames’s cock down his throat like he's being paid for it—giving head against the door with his tie still on and his eyes starting to stream. Eames should pull off, should give him a rest and go easier and drag him to his feet to kiss him until he comes in his pretty little pants, but Arthur's hands are tight on his hips and Eames’s own are caught in his hair, ruffling it up just as much as he'd imagined. And Arthur—Arthur is red-cheeked and eager and even when he does pull off he keeps right on licking at him, sucking hard little kisses against the underside of his cock. When he glances up at Eames, his eyes are hooded.

Eames pulls him off his cock with a wet pop, dragging his thumb along Arthur's swollen lower lip. His face is flushed, lashes fluttering up at Eames as if inviting him to push back into his mouth and choke him again. "Bed?" Eames urges, his thoughts getting the better of him even as he says it—Arthur lying spread-eagled, his bloody bedamned waistcoat with half the buttons torn off, starch-white shirt hitched up on his ribcage as Eames practically rips his trousers off—and Arthur seems uncomprehending, his tongue darting out wickedly to lap at Eames’s finger.

" _Bed_ ," he repeats, and when Arthur says nothing, Eames hooks his thumb into Arthur's mouth and guides him back up to his height. With jelly-legged but graceful acquiescence, Arthur lets himself be pulled flush with his body as Eames whispers, "Let me take you apart lying down, love."

Arthur groans right into his mouth in response, pushing the taste of Eames onto his tongue and giving a little whine when Eames drapes an arm around his shoulders to point him in the proper direction. Eames is kissing the bared nape of his neck when Arthur makes his way to the bed, every movement fluid and easy, no sign of clumsiness despite the kneeling and drinking he's been doing. He sprawls on his back without missing a beat, flicking open the first button on his waistcoat and giving another of those dangerous little smiles. "I thought about you when I made myself come last night. Did I tell you that?" His eyes are still at half-mast, making him look almost sleepy, but there's a glint to his gaze that belies it.

Arthur's hand drifts down the still-fastened row of buttons and Eames’s eyes follow, staring as he rubs the heel of it between his legs. Head lolling back, but he’s still looking Eames full in the face, unashamed. "With my fingers—I had them inside me, but it wasn't...I couldn't..."

Eames is chanting a lost-cause mantra of _patience, patience, patience_ , trying not to surge forward and rip Arthur's clothes off of him with brute force. Arthur's slow, casual admittance—just the _image_ of him fingering himself destroys Eames’s patience entirely and he pounces, pinning Arthur to the bed with his body, growling audibly as he attacks Arthur's bared throat with his teeth. "You do that often, then? Fuck yourself on your fingers and think about me?” His teeth graze harshly on Arthur's collarbone.

The only answer Arthur gives him at first is a long, low moan. He arches underneath Eames, gripping at his shirt to ruck the fabric up his back, leaving the burn of fingernails in his wake. Arthur is still entirely dressed, ironed and buttoned and much too covered for Eames’s liking. He wants to _see_ , learn whether Arthur's flush goes all the way down to his chest, whether he's sensitive enough to cry out and plead for more when having his nipples toyed with. Whether he's limber enough to let Eames press his legs over his head and fuck him through the bed.

"Sometimes," Arthur breathes out, lashes flitting wildly as Eames grapples with the front of his waistcoat and fails to do so without casualties. "Other times I use a dildo."

Eames is going to die. He's going to have a fucking heart attack here in his hotel room and Arthur's going to have to explain it to everyone. Arthur, choosing this of all times to be oblivious to details, doesn't seem to realize this and just keeps on going. "Or I—I'll have it in my mouth and pretend it's your cock, and I'll finger myself like that, like I'm sucking you and you're in me anyway, but it's not the same, Eames, it’s not enough."

He's gripping at Eames’s shirt, yanking at it until Eames sits back and wrestles it the rest of the way off. Arthur's hands are everywhere then, stroking and exploring, and it's only a matter of seconds before his mouth joins in, parted over the point of a nipple. "'s not good enough, it’s never enough. Wanna feel you fucking me, coming on me, and I want to watch you lick it off me when you're done." He nips there, careful, looking up at Eames so guilelessly he can't possibly be faking it, or at least Eames wants to believe as much. "Will you?"

"Fuck, _yes_ , Arthur," Eames is babbling, whispering his assent like a prayer, grabbing Arthur by the ribcage and practically throwing him back against the mattress. He digs his nails into Arthur's sides, grinning when Arthur's breath hisses out, his fingers twisting in the sheets, his skin turning red in trails over his ribs. Eames gluts himself on sensation, exploring Arthur's body with his hands, marveling at expanses of alternately rough and smooth skin, at Arthur's slight patch of chest hair and at the slightly more substantial trail of hair to the base of his cock. He drags his fingers down to Arthur's groin, Arthur's body arching and his breath coming out in gasps as Eames wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and squeezes a bit too hard.

"Such a slut for it," Eames marvels, and Arthur practically whimpers, thrusting into Eames’s hands, pleading with him, "Just fucking _do it_ , Eames, fucking please, put something in me.” The rest of it all runs together but sounds an awful lot like _anything for the love of god I want to feel you._

He could fucking _kick_ himself for not insisting they take this back to Arthur's place instead. Arthur's place where, presumably, there's a dildo he makes regular and creative use of. "Next time," Eames hears himself gritting out, low and firm, "I want to see you put it in yourself."

He pushes Arthur's legs apart, dragging his trousers the rest of the way off, and laps a slow hot path up the join of his thigh. "I want to see you slip it up your arse and come for me that way." Under him, Arthur curves up wantonly, trying to urge him on, and Eames sucks the head of his cock into his mouth--only for a minute, to taste him and tease him and make him that much more desperate—pressing a finger in alongside and sucking hard. "Tell me what you want, darling—is it fingers you like most? Or maybe you could turn over for me and let me make you good and wet before I fuck you proper, is that it?"

Arthur wrenches the sheets in both hands, seemingly inarticulate for the moment as Eames laps at him, licking down the seam of his balls to press his tongue lower still, letting the wetness drip down onto his fingers to ease the way. He curls his first finger slightly, delighting as Arthur arches off the bed and grits his teeth, almost begging now. "Fuck...Eames, I...fuck."

He’s panting, his eyes glazed as he stares skyward, "I want you to fuck me open with your fingers and..." he's cut off as Eames thrusts another into him, stretching him further. "I w-want you to fuck me and I want it to hurt and I want you to hold me down while you do it and at the end I want you to pull out and come all over my face and oh _god_ Eames stop torturing me like this."

It’s the sob in his voice that makes reality come crashing down on Eames like an upturned bucket of ice water. Then, with two fingers inside the crushing heat Arthur’s body, he hesitates. “I don’t have—”

“Jesus _fuck_ , Eames,” Arthur explodes, “I just sucked your _dick_. Is your blood work accurate or isn’t it?”

Their jobs involve jabbing themselves with needles and even Eames isn’t crass enough to forge himself a clean bill of health instead of actually keeping up with his status in that area, so yes, yes it is. He kisses Arthur’s thin-drawn mouth into softness all over again. “No more waiting, darling, you’re being so good for me. I've got you.”

Arthur is both supplicating and commanding at once as he writhes down onto Eames’s fingers—spit-wet only, no lube, no time, no planning ahead, not for this, and Eames swears in the future he's going to plan for _everything_ —and crying out for more. Eames takes the peak of a nipple between his teeth, bites a sharp little trail down Arthur's middle until he's nuzzling at his cock a second time, tongue curling out to tease the fluid from the tip.

"There now, just open for me, just like that," he coaxes, and Arthur cries out, back bowing and hands clutching hard at him, and that’s when Eames takes him into his mouth all over again, slips a third finger inside.

"Oh, _shit_ , fuckfuckfuck..." Arthur gasps, and Eames is staring at where he’s stretched so tight around three of his fingers, so undeniably the hands of a man, thick and callused and _wide_. There has to be some degree of pain, no matter how careful Eames is being, but there’s also precome beading on the slit of Arthur’s prick and smearing onto Eames’s cheek. And even as he whines, Arthur fucks himself on those fingers and utters a litany of whispered curses garbled with so much _want_ that Eames’s mind tunnel-visions to nothing but preparing Arthur for him. He ducks, licking around his fingers, easing the way as much as he can. "I'm going to fill you up with my cock, love, just a little longer," he promises, using his other hand to grip Arthur's hip and bring him down on his tongue and fingers.

The way Arthur moves probably defies laws of physics, but Eames isn't as cruel as his reputation can make him out to be and Arthur needs more from him now than a little attentive watching. He thrusts up into him, deeper, parting his fingers a bit more, kisses the moans from his mouth. He's shaking, sweat-soaked and leaking onto his belly, and when Eames curls his fingers delicately to stroke over that sensitive little cluster of nerves up inside him Arthur contracts around him, hard, and emits an honest to goodness sob. Eames kisses him again and again, his mouth and his neck and the sweaty hollow of his collarbones, drawing his hand back and thumbing lightly over the stretched muscle of his arsehole. "Was it like this, when you fucked yourself open last night?"

He doesn't wait for a reply, isn't sure Arthur's entirely capable of giving him one. Eames slips one of those wide-splayed legs over his shoulder and nudges against him with the slickened head of his cock, catching on slick-tight heat but not pushing just yet even though there’s a tremble in his thighs from holding back. "Bear down for me, sweetheart. Still with me?"

Arthur's answering curse echoes in his ears as Eames pushes in. Even after three fingers, bloody fucking _hell_ , Arthur's still so fucking tight, hot and slick and gripping his cock, clenching with need. Eames takes a deep breath and tries not to just slam Arthur into the bed and fuck the breath out of him. Arthur is chewing his lip as if to stifle his reply to Eames’s question until he finally grits, "Eames, fuck, _move_.”

And Eames does, gripping Arthur's hips for leverage and slamming home, his blood pounding in his ears at Arthur's wet tight heat, at hearing Arthur's raw, breathy moans, his voice gravelly from Eames’s cock pounding down his throat before. Eames is gasping as he speeds up the pace, slick with sweat and fucking Arthur in a dazed fervor, hypnotized by the harsh thudding of skin on skin, by Arthur's mumbled _fuck, yes, ohgodohgod yes like that harder_ and _god your cock Eames oh fuck_ and Eames is digging his nails into Arthur's hips, slamming Arthur onto his cock over and over.

Even then, Arthur is still gasping out demands between whimpers, things like, "Do it harder, make me hurt, want—wanna feel it when I wake up, fuckEames _please_ " and Eames couldn't hold back now if he wanted to. He's forcing him up the bed, crushing him against the headboard in a way that can't be comfortable, but Arthur just reaches down and grips himself behind his other leg, the one that isn't draped over Eames’s shoulder, and spreads himself that much wider. Mouth parting, pink and abused, and when Eames leans down to kiss him it means Arthur's bent into a hairpin, but it doesn't seem to register with him at all. Arthur's cock is still trapped between them, slick and smearing precome, and even though he's not touching himself Arthur gives a shattered little sound against Eames’s cheek. "Keep—can't—'m gonna come."

Eames feels deafened by the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, but he can't come, not yet, not until he's seen Arthur come all over himself and _fuck_ , he's so fucking close, but he bites Arthur's lip and thrusts harder, wraps a hand around Arthur's neck and squeezes gently, whispers in Arthur's ear, " _Then come, you filthy thing; that's right, love_ ," and he's gasping and barely staving off his own orgasm as it is, but all he wants is to hear Arthur completely undone.

Beneath him, Arthur goes tight, impossibly so, every muscle in him seeming to clench taut. Eames swears through his teeth and damn near loses it then and there, and for a moment, given the look on Arthur's face, he's afraid he's actually _hurt_ him. But then Arthur's body shudders, spasming with pleasure as he finally shoves a hand between them and fists his cock, shooting streams of come all the way up to the hollow of his throat. It could be Eames’s imagination or the fact that his eyesight is starting to go foggy on him, but he could swear he sees a stray drop land on Arthur's lips and just as quickly disappear with a swipe of his quick little tongue. " _Fuck_ , Arthur, what you do to me…"

Arthur just rolls right over him, voice tremulous and rough in a way Eames has never heard it before; _you feel so good in me, need it, come on me, just fucking **do** it, please, please, let me feel you_.

It takes every ounce of Eames’s willpower to pull out, his come spurting hot and thick, pearly white over Arthur's flushed skin. He nearly loses his balance as he comes, _oh Arthur, fuck_ , vision blurring while his orgasm rips out of him. He braces himself against the headboard as the last drops leave his cock. Eames doesn’t actually have any experience to back this up, but he feels as if he's had some sort of exorcism.

He searches for words, finds none, and then slumps onto Arthur, pulling him into the crook of his neck too forcefully to count as cuddling. "Fuck."

Arthur just lies there with a little smile on his face. One of his long fingers is drawing patterns on his skin while he's still covered in come. Eames is unable to take his eyes off him even for a second.

“You’ll probably want to get cleaned up," he hazards.

After giving a jaw-cracking yawn, Arthur just cozies up to his pillow a little more without seeming bothered at all. "Not yet, I like it," he mumbles, apparently half to the pillow and half to himself, and Eames is reminded yet again that his darling colleague is dirtier than he realized.

He’s a little sour about not catching onto this before.

"You mustn't think me forward,” he says, which is bloody ridiculous because Arthur has already demonstrated very clearly that he has no problem with forwardness, “but are you an enormous cocktease with everyone you drink with or just me?"

“I thought you were only a tease if you didn’t have sex.” Arthur eyes him. “That _was_ you I had sex with just now, right?”

“Oh, shut up. I think I liked you better when you were too busy moaning to talk.”

“Are you always a crappy liar after you get laid or it is just because of me?”

“I’m resigned to being several things right now,” Eames tells him, rolling onto a moderately cool section of the bed. “Shame on you.”

Another thing he’s resigned himself to is the very real possibility of getting inordinately horny the next time he smells scotch. He apparently shares this thought out loud because the last thing he remembers before dropping into sleep is Arthur assuring him that, as long as he’s around, this shouldn’t be a problem at all.

\---

 **bonus artwork by[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : the diagram Eames starts drawing on his napkin, where X equals the amount of alcohol and Y equals the amount of verbal debauchery**

  


\---

 **and a bonus sorta-kinda epilogue, written just before we both decided this had all gotten ridiculous enough and sleep needed to happen**

  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : and they sleep in their own come  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : and it is lovely  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : until they wake up  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : and shower  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : and Eames fucks him in the shower  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : and talks up the possibilities of Arthur's vibrator  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : And Arthur is like "next time you can fuck me while I suck it"  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : While Arthur is all huffy that Eames doesn't even keep fucking lube around.  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : Arthur probably has a sexy travel kit with six different brands  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : "I'll buy you one of your own!"  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : Arthur has them ordered by flavor  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : Lolol  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : He replaced the tea in one of those tea chests  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : with lube.  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : Oh my god.  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : That is now my headcanon.  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : "What'll it be, Mr. Eames, raspberry or PASSIONBERRY?"  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : Ginger fruit punch!  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : "Is that some kind of insult?"  
[](http://froggie.livejournal.com/profile)[ **froggie**](http://froggie.livejournal.com/) : "Blueberry smoothie it is, then!"  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : Eames just snickering and shaking his head and Arthur all, "I am going to fuck myself and not let you help and then you'll really be sorry."  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : which of course cannot happen  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : He has to wonder why he never got drunk with Arthur before  
[](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[ **recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/) : and they order up breakfast  



End file.
